Happy Birthday

Dear Ally,

Today you turn 19.years.old. When you were born, the whole world gathered to greet you. When you were one year old, you started a new Thanksgiving tradition, of everyone coming to Colmar, PA for your birthday. When you were two, you said good-bye to Grandpa Sam. That birthday party was his living wake, as he prepared for surgery that he knew would kill him. I was unconscious with pneumonia the whole weekend. When you turned 8, it was your first Florida birthday, and your whole big family came all the way here to be with you. When you turned 18, you were working on your birthday, and I made you your very own (and first) strawberry pie.

Now you are 19. Took the day off from college classes. Played Nintendo with your boyfriend. Sulked and struggled with something about this day, this age. 19 feels scary to you right now.

But, even though we have big changes coming up this year of 19, we will be here holding space for you, so that a year from now, wherever we may be, you can yell a big deep "YES" to the best year ever.

Love love
Momma

lost in translation

Well. Quiet Thanksgiving, in a way, just the four of us. And the pathology of our dynamics in transition right now. So much uncertainty, so many identity shifts: for mh and I, for my daughter and her boyfriend.

And my neck spasm, a week old now, the likes of which I haven't had since my father died. If I revisit that process, it was all about getting grounded again in the face of cataclysmic change. Ok, it fits. The dream work (that solved it last time) is just now getting to the "finding a place to live" chaos. This is progress.

Finding a place to live, in me, in my root energy, since we are going to have to go. Now that I know how dead mh finds it here and how desperate he is to head west.

So there's the husband thing, and my school thing, and the business changing, and my daughter feeling stalled, and her boyfriend in abject frozen confusion, about to be homeless. How this all translates into the opportunity to leap is a mystery to me.

clean slate

Musings on recent lurking about.

There are two schools of thought out there:

1) I'm part of a miraculous process, and see, it all serves to affirm my pathology. Yup, I'm right, I'm entrenched, I'm toxic, and there's this miracle in my life. No need to change anything about me at all. The miracle is here to support my pathology, proves I've been right all along.

2) I'm part of a miraculous process, warts and all. And isn't it wonderful. Now we can all grow together. Miracles happen, they wipe the moment clean and you will never be the same again! Isn't that the point of miracles anyway? To be instantaneously transformed?

Um, guess who's miracle kid has a chance to grow up into her own life? And not be forever crippled into the role of mirroring mom's pathology?

Makes me wonder, miracle babies aside, what it feels like to consciously process the miracle at hand. Not like Moses running crazy in the hills after seeing the shadow of God walk by. No, feeling it right there, straight to the heart, washing me clean.

Hmmm. Let's process that for a few days. My heart's ready.

week 2

So, as of right now I've finished week 2. This week was definitely smoother, but turnaround time on writing assignments definitely quicker, my writing more confident. It feels like there's actually room for me in this class.

The tricky thing is, I had to finish today's work while away from home. In fact, I'm gone all week so I have to find work time in this different (noisy, chaotic family)environment.... wow. did I have to wait to start this til things were oh so quieter at my house?

Let's see what week 3 brings!

survived week 1

so the truth is, I'm beginning my first course in the doctoral graduate program for us PT's - the online DPT course at Boston University. This was my first week. My brain will never be the same.

It is so not me, and it is so what I MUST DO. And I found myself craving it by day 2. The workload is staggering, as you do a whole semester's class in 6 weeks.

It's a whole different culture out there, and nobody is farther OUT of that box than ME. Yet, my two "mentor buddies" are very kind and fascinated all at once and willing to hold some kind of space for me. Albeit in that "we want front-row seats for the train wreck" kind of way.

How i'll ever manage life on the road AND this class is beyond me. For now, I've got week 2 at home.

I can do that.

jury meltdown

Yep, it was that time of year again. Off I went to the courthouse, for this year's installment of "jury notes from hell."

Signs were looking good - I escaped the first three calls to the pool. But on the fourth.... upstairs I went to the courtroom. Signs continued to look good - it was a one-day case, just in case I got picked. I was ready with my typical stories out, but also willing to ride it through if that's what emerged.

Ha ha.

In we go, there they are, attorneys for the state, grounded, alert, conscious. Attorneys for the accused: ick, fake... how do you stay grounded when your client is as slimey as they come? The accused: twitching away between the two of them.

The charge: domestic battery.

The result: my.instant.meltdown.

WTF???? Uh, yeah, I'm a domestic battery victim/survivor (which actually included a full palette of abuses). Uh, yeah, I've worked through this for so many years, releasing fists out of my face, terror from my cells, blah blah blah.

Why was this so different? That I had to raise my hand in a freaking courtroom and say "yes, I'm a victim of domestic battery and no, I will not be able to maintain a clear and open mind regarding the accused's innocence"???

That I had to say it out loud in front of all strangers? and then sat there, shaking and silently sobbing in a full-blown panic attack, as I had to listen to everybody else (including two domestic batterers in the jury pool) and the attorneys for both sides continued to engage me in the selection process?

That way back then I never knew that I had the right to defend myself, even in this legal way? That my first husband got away with it, terrorizing my life in more ways than we can count?

We left the courtroom on break and I hid way at the end of the hall, behind a pillar, and doubled over sobbing and gasping. I called my husband and left some hysterical message (sorry, honey, I'm sorry). And then I tried to pull it all together so we could get released.

The minute we walked back in the courtroom, my heart started pounding again and my eyes filled and my breathing stopped and I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

And I escaped into the hot Florida sun and walked, walked, walked - 1/2 hr at noon time to get back to my car. Walking my way back.

What on earth, what in me was this all about?